Chaos Theory
by KitCat Italica
Summary: Post BB. Ra's is back, but not even Batman or Joker could have anticipated a revenge quite this cruel. Now Gotham City's entire population must put aside all differences, embrace two unmasked leaders, and reconcile two extremes – or perish. Eventual B/J
1. Chapter 1

Chaos Theory

**A/N: Before you read this, know this is a very different concept, something that has been brewing in my head for months and has thus jammed its way into my muse's processor along with Always and Always, thus preventing me working on Chapter 14 of that fic until I do something about this one. **

**As I said, it's a DRASTICALLY different concept. Something I certainly have never seen done in this fandom (which is a good sign, right, originality and all that?). But on the flip side, it's a risk to see if anyone would like it, or even deem it plausible. But hey, sharing any work of art, literary or otherwise, is a risk, some bigger than others. So voila.**

**This part of the story I have written takes place well into the plot, but major plot points are referenced enough to (hopefully) give you the big picture of what's going on and how things got from the movies to here.**

**Yes, there will be Batman/Joker (how could there not be, coming from me). And Rachel is not dead. And Loeb is not dead, and Maroni is not dead, and lots of other people that should be dead/insane are thusly not, due to this fic's deviation from moviecanon about 45 minutes into TDK. I hope someone gets something out of this, at least, as I worked on it all night. Yup, it's nearly 5AM now. Oops.**

**Regardless, please share your thoughts on this one, I'd be intrigued to hear them, no matter what they may be. :)**

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><p>The forest rocked in its own languid breeze, trees whispering light breaths to the branches of their fellows. Shifting, weaving, stirring, only to return to its firm state of solidarity. Brief gusts and tufts blew through the leaves and undergrowth, but all was temporary; soon, it was back to silence.<p>

A bird keened its repetitive drone in the distance. Its simple sound was the only disturbance for a long while. Then, a slight sprinkling brushed through the grass – it was a rabbit, creeping along in its slight bouncing fashion. It sat up on its haunches, ran its paws over its face and ears once, then sat still for a minute. Then off it went, one hop, then two, then back to stillness. Listening at nothing.

All at once, the rabbit was nearly kicked out of the way, but hurtled itself to the side just in time to avoid the pounding footsteps of Carmine Falcone's sprinting form.

He gasped and panted loudly as he ran, _racing_ through the forest as fast as his heartbeat. Tree after tree after tree whizzed by him, his mind not bothering to contemplate that it was him passing them, not the other way around. With the truth of that notion came the implication that he had the option of stopping, and resting.

And he didn't. Oh no, he definitely could _not_ stop now.

His eyes were bulging, the air scraping past his stripped corneas until he could barely even see through his peripheral vision. Tunnel vision, really – all his focus was on the spot directly in front of him, giving him a constant goal forward, just a few more strides until he'd make it. Now a few more, and a few more after that, just keep _running, they're right behind you_. And so he did.

There. A few yards in front of him, the tree he'd remembered her climbing up. "Anna!" he called, breathless but strong. "Get out of here, they're coming!"

Anna Ramirez had seen him long before he'd seen her tree, and she screamed back down to him, "What happened to the supplies?"

"What do you _think_, we got caught!" came another voice panting behind Carmine, revealing the source to be Gillian Loeb. "Get Barbara and Stevens! Tell them to head back north!"

By this point the two on the ground had passed her tree, and spotting a hefty-looking branch, Anna hefted herself higher up the tree. Poking her head out of the canopy, she located the other two. "They said to turn back!" she yelled, and they waved, the closest signal to "copy that" they could achieve at the distance they were. Orders could not be shirked in the state things were in.

Looking down for her next foothold to scramble down the tree, Anna froze at the sight that stopped her eyes' quest midway. Even given the months escaping these brushes with death, her stomach still knotted at the sight.

At least a thousand men, all with automatics and hand grenades and God knows what else, were jogging loosely through the trees, not five hundred yards away.

She reached the ground in record time as the first of the bullets rang out in the distance. Bullets she knew they all had to run the hell away from as soon as possible. There was no way to fight this; no wonder they'd aborted the mission.

Jim Gordon raced up just as she reached the ground, and they matched step for step in their mad dash. The somewhat-former police lieutenant dared a swivel to the right, and mixed in a breath of relief into his rapid breathing as he realized it wasn't their pursuers, but rather Coleman Reese, Salvatore Maroni, Gambol, Viti, and Schiff. He was just about to call out to them about Jonathan Crane's whereabouts, who was stationed with them-

-when gunfire tore holes through the bark of a tree thirty feet from them all.

Immediately the haggard group of ten took to the thickest trees they could find, pressed with their backs as flat as possible to the trunks' bark. Their hands automatically covered their mouths, to limit the noise from their uncontrollable breathing. Without such precautions, their breath would be a dead giveaway, with particular emphasis on the word _dead_.

The forest was sharp-still, holding its breath as if gripped in the same panic as them. Though his lungs he couldn't do anything about, the rest of Reese was a statue beside Maroni, gripping their automatics draped across their backs without conscious thought. In this world of the past several months, the weapons were the closest comforts any of them had.

Soft swishing issued from the underbrush nearest Gambol's tree, and he and Barbara Gordon slowly, silently maneuvered their guns from their backs to their fronts. Jim's eyes were lasers on Barbara, wishing he could make out the target from behind the tree himself, so he could take the shot and protect his wife-

-when suddenly, he _could_ make out the target. "It's alright," he called out. "It's just Harvey."

Everyone immediately relaxed the smidgen allowed in the current climate, shouldered their guns, and trudged through the growth to Harvey Dent – who, albeit battered in his mind as much as the rest, looked considerably optimistic for the grim situation.

Salvatore looked around, voicing the oddity that everyone noticed. "Where's Bruce?"

It took Harvey a breath before speaking, as he had obviously sprinted through the forest just as the rest of them had. "Took a detour, said he'd shake them off."

"_Does he know how many are out there?_"Anna asked, flabbergasted.

"Hey, he said he'd do it," Harvey replied, though his doubt betrayed his face a second before he could wipe it away, "Thought it'd give us a chance at outrunning them, since we obviously can't outgun them this time. And given the situation, there wasn't much time to argue-"

"Bruce knows the risks, better than any of us," Stevens interjected. The statement garnered a solemnity among the group, even greater than usual. All eyes found themselves lowered to the dirt eventually, and when they raised to meet each other's…

Their weathered souls countered the next action, shut down that train of thoughts. There were no more tears in their lives after all they'd been through. Even though what Bruce had gone through at the start of this ordeal had been far worse. But they'd learned many times over that there was no time for self-pity; else they'd drown in it.

"Still, Joker's gonna kill us," Viti murmured, earning the faintest traces of wry smiles from the group.

"Considering there's a thousand League of Shadows members on our tail, I think Joker's the least of our worries," Gambol put in. They would have laughed, had the pressing dilemma not been very, very _true_. The practical side of his brain surfaced through – that which had long been instilled from Batman's lessons to them all – and the ex-mobster cast his eyes about the group. Ramirez, Jim, Barbara, Salvatore, Carmine, Schiff, Reese, Harvey, Viti, Stevens, Loeb. With himself, that made twelve of their original twenty members. "Who're we missing?"

"Lau…" Jim began, "…Natasha…"

"…Lucius…" added Reese.

"…and Jonathan," Jim concluded. "Them and Bruce, who's still supposed to be out th- there they are!"

And sure enough, Lucius Fox, Jonathan Crane, Lau, and Natasha materialized into view – more hurtling toward them all if anything, nostrils flared for adrenaline-spiked breath and eyes widening with fear at the idling state of the twelve before them.

Indeed, with _fear_.

"What the hell are you _doing_? _Run_!" Lau roared at them, the four never pausing.

They normally wouldn't bother to question new orders from the group, but Harvey held out a hand to stop them. "It's okay, catch your breath, Bruce said he'd head them off-"

At Bruce's name the quartet shot Harvey a look of disbelief, but before Lucius could open his mouth to say anything, the incoming bullets from not a hundred feet behind them refuted Harvey's statement incontrovertibly.

The group-turned-deer-in-headlights snapped to the source of the bullets, but their dread was only jolted ever higher as a black shadow glided toward them. A shadow they were all quite familiar with.

"_RUN_!" Bruce bellowed, and they obeyed in a flash, picking up their frantic pace as more bullets ricocheted wildly past the trees, _zing_ing through the air.

The wind beneath his cape could only carry him so far, and soon Bruce abandoned his glide entirely and retracted the wingspan, steel-toed boots pounding through the forest with the rest of his companions. Breath after painful breath, stride after stride, the makeshift task force of seventeen humor-drained men and women bolted for their lives, the army of their own personal hell right on their heels – a fact confirmed by the bullets that buried mere inches from the footprints they rapidly left behind.

Harvey made his way next to Bruce. "You said – you'd distract them!"

"I know what I said!" Bruce yelled back through sharp breaths. "There were – too many of them."

"I – told you there – there were – too many!" Ramirez scolded Harvey.

"What now – about the supplies?" Barbara asked.

"We tried," Loeb gasped, "maybe – the others-"

"This is as close as we've gotten to a raid, and you know it! We can't count on sending others in there without Bruce-"

"_You can count on sending your asses to hell after we're all shot!_" Jonathan roared at the lot of them, and the argument was prudently set to the side. Tunnel vision centered into their minds, a side effect of their tunnel way of _thinking_ these past months.

Survive.

Natasha chanced a glance behind her, met with the foliage-obscured shapes of Ra's al Ghul's personal army growing in the distance behind them. "They're getting closer!"

"We're almost there," Lucius reassured them all, namely their screaming internal muscles. "There's the drop-"

Bullets riddled holes in the air right above Bruce's head, which would have hit the ears of his cowl had he still possessed that piece of his armor. In a growl of frustration at the continued targeting of his companions, he slowed a second, letting the others get in front of him, then snapped his cape open wide again, chancing another glide on the new gust of wind to draw their fire away.

He knew it was _him_ that they really wanted.

The others didn't risk looking back, not with the League so close at their heels. They made it past the last few scraggly trees and raced to the cliff before them, feeling the grass at their feet give way to the barren rock at the edge.

Bruce felt a sting on his back, and dipped in his glide as he winced, but kept arcing his flight five feet off the ground. The trees just barely missed him as he maneuvered expertly around them in swoops and dives, reading their positions and reacting in matters of milliseconds, but the gunfire was a formidable pursuer. To his left, he saw his group make it to the drop, and heard someone, maybe Jim, yell out "_Joker! Rachel!"_ to the pair stationed at the edge of the outcropping.

He lessened the cape's tension a bit, easing himself to two feet above the ground, but a sudden _explosion_ of pain made him swerve and make contact with the rock beneath him far quicker than expected. Unprepared to absorb the shock so suddenly, he reeled, nearly lost his balance, but his feet spurred him on, running of nearly their own accord. The pain in his side was manageable, considering what he'd endured months ago at Ra's' hands, but it was making his progress intolerably slower.

The group scrambled to the edge of the ravine, calling out "_Joker! Rachel! They found us, run!_" The two in question, one with a six-month-along belly, the other still stubbornly in his purple suit of a time almost forgotten, turned over their shoulders at the commotion.

Rachel swiftly nodded at the others, and grabbed Joker's arm in an attempt to get them both away, but Joker was rooted to the spot, his eyes lighted on something else in the distance. Upon noticing what it was, Rachel stopped too.

Before she could react, Joker had taken his automatic in hand, and aimed it squarely at the figure in black. His eyes blazed with hatred, and Rachel was too late to stop him before his target crumpled bloody to the rocks, the rounds piercing the weaknesses in the armor.

Felling the League member who had been about to fire point-blank on Bruce, allowing the slowed crusader time enough to make his getaway.

Bruce somehow rushed up to the general conglomeration of his sixteen fellows, who in turn regrouped with the two who had been standing watch at the drop's edge. Joker shouldered his gun, and he and Rachel swiveled around to join in the others' momentum, aided as their respective lovers clasped their hands in iron grips.

The nineteen desperate fugitives leapt quite ungracefully off the edge, sliding down the curved cliff face as clouds of dust and sand billowed from their feet, smooth snake-like patterns left in their wake. "_Alfred!_" Bruce yelled, but the old man sitting in the car had already started the engine of the Jeep, and was poised at the driver's seat, facing the car's rear, grenade launcher poised over his shoulder at the League members sliding after his companions.

A cloud of Napalm – one of Joker's additions to the weapon – bloomed behind the Gothamites as Alfred fired a first round, then two more in quick succession. _Just to be sure_, he told himself, choosing not to acknowledge the motive of _revenge_ behind the action, as well. Soon after, he decided the hell with it, and acknowledged it anyway.

There was no room for remorse in their world, nor was there for justice. Revenge _was_ the only fire in their lives now.

Satisfied he'd at least held them off for a few precious seconds before more soldiers piled down the slope, he helped grab hands to hoist his fellows up into the car. They were careful with Rachel, given her gravid state, but looking over her shoulder Alfred's heart skipped a beat.

Bruce was slowing, still too many yards away from the Jeep, and was trying to control his stumbling to no avail before Joker caught him in time. In an instant Alfred and Rachel leapt forward to run out and help them, but Bruce shouted "No, _go!_"

Barely processing the decision in his head, Alfred skidded back to the driver's seat and hit the gas. Orders weren't just from trusted employers and foster sons anymore. They were from any comrade, _any_ trusted source you could get.

And you didn't question them, because more often than not, they saved your life.

"Bruce, Joker, _hurry!_" Salvatore yelled over the engine, but the two figures were rapidly fading away into the distance. Jonathan turned behind him to the two diminishing men, and felt Carmine, Coleman, and Schiff tense with him to jump off the car and run back after them, with everyone else not far behind-

Joker scrambled his limbs around Bruce's body, and the cape unfurled for a third time in the past ten minutes, propelled forward on the shockwave after shockwave from the grenade explosions behind them. Clouds of fire and red consumed all in their path, singeing the cape as Bat and Clown were blasted forward, into the arms of their companions.

Upon their safe landing, Alfred didn't need to be told even once; he floored the gas pedal, careening them away from the final explosion. The shockwave hit the wound in Bruce's side head-on, and his feet slipped on the edge of the car, but Joker dove after him, he and Jim grabbing Bruce's shoulders before he could fall, Harvey steadying Joker's to keep him on the Jeep as well.

They all panted heavily, grim hatred for their pursuers and pure exhaustion burning through their eyes, still somewhat dazed as they gazed upon the deathtrap they had just escaped by a hair.

Bruce finally winced slightly in mental assessment of his injury, and they hefted him back into the car properly, laying him down on the bench seats lining the cargo bed. For a minute they all took a moment to just breathe again, let their minds take hold on the new reality: _you're still alive, you're not going to die in the next three seconds._

Viti was the first to get a grip on things, and stirred to face Bruce. Upon noticing his glance, Bruce looked up.

And was greeted with a resounding knuckled backhand to his unmasked cheekbone.

"Agh!" he cried out, flinching, his hand automatically shooting up to his face. "Jesus, what was that for?"

But Viti glared back at him with little remorse. He eased back into his seat, and looking around the rest of Bruce's companions, every pair of eyes besides Alfred's and Joker's was fixed on him with that same reproach.

"_Don't_. Do that to us. _Again_," the Chechen ground out. The sixteen other pairs of eyes reflected the rough sentiments exactly.

Bruce glared indignantly right back. "Look, I just saved your lives; they would have killed us all if I hadn't doubled back-"

"We're in this _together_," Anna cut him off. "You can't just swoop in with your - your fancy cape and armor and expect to save the day while expecting _us_ to let you go. You could've _died_, and we would have all tried to help you, and you would have led us into nothing but a trap. All – because – of _you_."

"If you were in my position, you all would have done the same thi-"

"_No,_" Jim took the lead. "That's just it. We're _not_ in your position. Do you think any of our lives matter to the League? That they'll give up the chase just because they shoot me down, or my wife, or Rachel or Harvey? We don't matter to them any more than do the three thousand Gothamites left in this world!"

"That's not the poi-"

"Oh, it's the point, all right," Rachel snapped. "You know as well as the rest of us do that it's _you_ they want. They know the risks you'll take, and they prepare for them each time we meet them. God, Bruce, they _trained_ you, and you don't think they know your methods inside and out?"

Bruce took a deep breath. He knew their words were true, but they still shouldn't be mad at him for what he had done for them. "I saw the opportunity, and I took it," he said flatly. "I'm still the one with the most experience with the League, so excuse me for deeming it necessary to save the lives of people I c-"

"_That's the point_," Lucius overrode his next words. His voice was quiet and calm, but all the more gripping for it. "You are the root of this entire conflict with the League, the only way the Gothamites will ever get out of this alive, the _only _thing standing between your people's morale and mass suicide, yet you care about them so much you forget it when you need it most."

He paused for a minute, until Schiff said quietly, yet quite seriously, "…how far do you honestly think we'd get without you?"

Bruce's eyes passed from one to the next, finding the same iron walls in each pair he met. Joker still cradled Bruce's head in his lap, but was clutching the man to him in a manner almost protective.

"It's not your job to protect me, last I checked-"

"_Well, check again,_" Salvatore boomed. "You may be our only hope, but the League knows that, and it's only bolded the letters of your name at the top of their hit list. And you encouraging them by handing your ass to them on a silver platter is something we _can't_ afford."

"They're after me because of the symbol I've become," Bruce said with a bit more venom than necessary, "and that symbol is founded on protecting Gotham-"

"Bruce Anthony Wayne, you listen to me," Rachel shot back. He looked at her warily.

"_You are not Batman anymore._"

The words hurt more than he had anticipated.

"You may have protected us once, but that's not the way things work anymore. Your job now is to lead us. And _we. Protect. You._"

There was no denying the stalwart dedication to her words in the countenances of the seventeen around him.

"Well," Joker interjected the oppressive silence, "if you kids are all finished playing Fellowship of the Ring, mind giving me a hand here?"

Viti's same knuckles slapped Joker's cheek with as much force as they had Bruce's.

"Hope you were listening," he snarled, "because all we said to him, goes double for you."

Joker rolled his eyes. "Of course, wouldn't want to let my adoring fans down by letting my heroic figure fall in the din of battle, whilst protecting my sweetheart, of all things. How absurd!"

"You know they've all come to trust you as much as they have him," Jonathan growled lowly. "We'd be nowhere without your know-how as well as Bruce's."

Joker batted his eyes at Jonathan. "I'm touched." He returned to Bruce's armor to gain better access to the wound, but a hand in black stopped him.

"Leave it for now," Bruce said. "I'm alright. I'll wait for medical once we get back to camp. I'm fine, really."

Joker sighed. "Fine, bleed all over me, see if I care."

"Please, Bruce," Alfred called from the driver's seat, "if you think you were read a riot act a minute ago, don't test fate by ruining the upholstery."

As always, Alfred's humor worked its magic to return that of the rest of the group's, and they all chuckled. _Finally, some smiles_, Bruce thought. Months ago he had been quite put off by the merriment his citizens had been caught up in (in large part thanks to the Joker) in light of the cruel circumstances they were forced to endure, but soon he had gotten used to it, and in time even succumbed to it himself. It was, he now understood, the last form of sanity they could turn to.

"But besides Bruce and his humbled pride, is everyone else in one piece?" Alfred called back. Everyone affirmed.

"Harvey?"

"Yes."

"Rachel?"

"Fine."

"Harvey Junior?"

Rachel smiled as Harvey lowered his head to rest on her pregnant belly. "Wonderful as ever."

Harvey smiled even wider. "It's kicking."

"No, honey," said Natasha with a laugh, "that's just Joker." They all looked over to see Joker kicking Harvey's ankle repeatedly, whether on purpose or unconsciously wasn't clear. They all laughed. Harvey kicked his foot away hard in response.

"Stop playing footsie with the other boys," Bruce slurred through closed eyelids, attempting to get some rest now that they were all safe again.

"Sweetie-pie, don't be jealous," crooned Joker, "just having a little _fun_."

"Oh yeah," said Carmine, "this coming from the man that would call what we just went through ten minutes ago 'fun'."

They laughed again. "You can't deny it gets your blood pumping," Joker sneered, "and all that adrenaline – does wonders for a body and mind."

"That explains a lot about _you_," Stevens pointed out, to another round of chuckles.

Gambol leaned back, enjoying the wind on his face as the car zoomed on through the desert, and sat in the companionable silence that followed for a moment. "To think," he mused, "six months ago, I would've put a bullet through both your heads with relish." Bruce and Joker both stuck their tongues out at him with childlike grimaces, and Gambol made a toy gun with his fingers and 'shot' them both. Everyone breathed a laugh, watching the antics with a nearly-nostalgic humor. "Even had a price on your head, Joker."

"Mmm, I do remember that."

"So where's my million for bringing him in alive?" Bruce asked.

Gambol laughed, and the rest sniggered. "Please," he said, "you have millions to spare."

"_Had_ millions," Bruce corrected him, a far-off look in his eyes. A look they all adopted somehow. Remembering what had been. "If I still did, we wouldn't be going on these raids to feed our people. And still failing."

A silence passed over them all. Somehow, even the silliest of pretend-quarrels and faux-jests, the hardest of belly-laughs and mirth-caused tears, could not hide them from the awareness of their situation for long. Here they were, camped out in the desert with three thousand people who looked up to them, struggling to feed every mouth and outrun the faceless predator of a private army – an army with only one objective.

To wipe out Gotham City.

Once, the city had boasted thirty million, but now only a hundredth of a percent of that figure remained. And somehow, by some miracle or curse, fate had chosen the twenty of them as the survivors to light the way forward for the rest.

And in the face of it all, the mob bosses, policemen and families, business executives, foreigners, mental patients, district attorneys, and the two resident freaks had thrown in their lots together, setting aside all differences from a past life that no longer existed. It was either that, or perish.

Lucius' smile soon found its way onto the other's faces, as it was always prone to do in times like this. "Hey, look on the bright side." His eyes met directly with Bruce's across the cargo bed. "You're still alive."

The others all sent ruefully warm looks in his direction, and Joker's arms squeezed briefly around him. He knew they were all truly grateful for this fact. He could feel it.

Lucius leaned back, resting his arms on the shoulders of Viti and Lau. "And so are we, to keep you company." Lau winked at him, and they all smirked, their cheeky message of _got your back, buddy_ sarcastic on the surface, but deeply-meant underneath.

Bruce looked around to his comrades, resting his eyes on Gambol last.

"…I think I'll take that bullet through my head right about now."

His words were abruptly met by a roar of laughter from them all. The rigidity was broken again, and they reveled in it, not knowing how long the carefree atmosphere of jesting would last.

"Sorry, no can do," Gambol finally said, "I never got around to pricing you."

"Oooh, can we play The Price is Right?" Joker asked, drumming his fingers in Bruce's hair as if he were the fender of a shiny new Maserati.

The game was met with enthusiasm, as everyone attempted to judge just how much Bruce Wayne was worth. After much scrutinizing, Natasha finally burst out with "Twenty-five cents!" which caused such an uproar of laughter that no other bids were taken. There he had it: Batman had his price, and it was a quarter.

"You goddamn bastards," Bruce let out, but laughing with them nonetheless.

"Aww, I think we hurt his dignity even further," Barbara crooned, joining Joker in ruffling her fingers through the vigilante's hair, to the sniggers of the rest.

All but Bruce, who gave her a look of bewilderment. "Mrs. Gordon, bear in mind that I have been dressing up as a bat for six months in an attempt to fight crime in my home city…" to the furthered giggling of his companions.

"…until I watched an enemy I thought was extinct all but invade the streets of my home city…" The giggling quieted a degree.

"…which I could do little about until I could do absolutely nothing at all, when they captured me…" The laughter was gone by now.

"…and held me hostage with my worst enemy, torturing us both for three weeks straight, before locking us in a pitch-black room with no way out for another three weeks, leaving one of us to die and the other to eat his remains until he died himself…" The grins were waning.

"…which was a narrowly-averted fate as you all rescued us, only upon my partial recuperation our captors returned in full force…" The light in everyone's eyes was dying out quickly.

"…and drove us out of our already-half-demolished city, leaving us with no government intervention, no international assistance, scrounging for food and shelter in any settlement we come across, all while trying to outrun a masked organization that has nearly unlimited resources and only one goal of hunting my people down one by one…" No hearts were light and carefree anymore, he could see it in their faces.

"…not to mention that, during the course of my torture and rescue, my identity was exposed by my captors, and on top of all that…" they waited with bated breath, wondering what new horror it was that he had forgotten to recount. Surely that accounted for it all; he hadn't forgotten anything; what was it that just took the cake, of all his trials and suffering they had all shared in?

"…I had to respectably come out of the closet somehow with this one pawing all over me."

The laughter was restored, gradually at first, then when the true absurdity of such a dilemma as _coming out_ was the worst Bruce could think of, they were all reeling in cackles all over again. Maybe reliving the past six months in their minds was too much for them, and the relief of something as mundane as that was the rubber band that snapped them all back, all at once. At any rate, Bruce was glad of the effect as his friends lit up around him.

"In short, Barbara," he managed into the laughter, "to what dignity of mine are you referring?"

"Well," said Harvey, "there's…the wonderful dignity of being surrounded by friends like us. Like, Lau here…the mob's former accountant…or Falcone, who ran half the city in his day…or Dr. Crane, who drove Falcone insane, poisoned you, set you on fire, and made a goddamn _pun _about it…"

He could not go on any further, for everyone was too convulsed in laughter, draped over each other in attempts to control their breathing, wiping away glee-induced tears with each other's sleeves and Bruce's singed cape. As Gambol reached for the black memory cloth, Bruce grabbed his hand. "Gambol. Bullet. Head. _Now_."

Their laughter skyrocketed ever further, splitting their sides – quite literally for Bruce, which caused Joker to wrap the cape around his side ever further, staunching the wound. But the crisis averted, their merriment continued on as the sun began to set on the desert.

"I still won't do it," Gambol said with a smirk when their laughter fit died down some.

"You'll eat those words when he cooks dinner tonight, because that will be the only thing edible," Alfred remarked. They laughed again, still too weak from their previous fit to muster up anything quite as strong, but Bruce didn't mind. He curled up closer to Joker's chest, glad for the lulling, beating pillow that the man allowed him, and prepared for a well-earned nap to accelerate the healing of his wound.

Everyone was lulling off into their own doze or silent, warm-hearted introspection as they stared out across the desert, Rachel's and Barbara's heads resting on their respective husbands' shoulders, the others not caring in the least at any incidental physical contact between them. Off in their own minds, they still shared a companionship with the others. Yet they all missed the unspoken exchange between the two prodigal leaders of the group.

Joker gently pressed a kiss to Bruce's forehead, and Bruce was filled with a yearning. He gripped the violet-wrapped bicep tighter, rubbing up and down the cloth and the warmth beneath it soothingly. His head rose for a proper kiss, and made it an inch away from Joker's lips before…

…before Joker's hand shot between their mouths, pressing Bruce firmly away from him. Their eyes met, and Bruce remembered. Remembered the promise they had made the first night of their society's ostracism from civilization.

They knew it was up to them to keep the city's hopes up – something Joker grudgingly helped Bruce with, only for the sake of what it meant. Without it, he would never see his plan come to fruition. But to do so, they had ensured the people of Gotham – those who remained, anyway – that the League of Shadows could destroy Gotham's buildings and infrastructures, but as long as each one of them kept surviving and existing and _defying_ the League's will, it could never destroy Gotham's spirit. For its spirit, they had told the desperate mass of then-five thousand, was its people.

They knew when they had spoken those words that it was a flat lie. A necessary lie, but a lie nonetheless.

_They_, Batman and Joker, were Gotham's spirit.

And Batman and Joker thrived off of, not only its people, but where the people lived. They reveled in skyscrapers, hulking buildings, dark alleys and the darker shadows in them, to make their fight. Without the City, they were exposed. They were limited. They were weak.

And so they had made a pact that night, when they found themselves exiles from the home they cared for so much. Anything else of an intimate nature was negotiable, but never once before had their lips touched. And when that moment happened, it would be electrifying; they knew it in their bones. And it _had_ to be in Gotham City.

So never would they share a real kiss until they won their City back.

Bruce remembered it, just as well as Joker. One man saw it in the other's eyes, and with it saw that, for all the store their followers put by them, they were just men. They _felt_ like just men, they both did – they had felt that moment of mortal weakness earlier today, when Bruce had stumbled from his blood loss, head foggy, with Joker struggling to keep him going, his strength failing to move them both in time…

When Joker destroyed a life or a building, or when Batman saved one and glided high above another, they didn't feel like just men – they felt _alive_. But here, out in the wild, they felt removed, frantic, grasping for straws. _Desperate_.

Bruce Wayne knew what desperate tasted like now, and so did the Joker.

Crusader let out a slow breath, and Clown Prince understood. Bruce laid his head back down on Joker's chest, letting his instincts guide him to cling closer to him as Joker's arms enveloped him tighter. They dozed with the rest of their fellows, as Alfred drove ever closer to the camp, allowing all worries about their failed mission for more food supplies, their near loss of their leaders, and their shredded dignity of the near-fatal lifestyle, all fade into sleep.

For now.


	2. Chapter 2

Chaos Theory

Chapter 2

**A/N: I swear, this story idea will not leave me alone. These past several nights I've been up till at least 3AM fleshing it out even further (while listening to Lily's Theme from HP7part2, which definitely fits the mood of this story like WHOA). So as much as I hate the idea of juggling two ongoing fanfics at once while trying to set aside time/brainpower for writing my book, it looks like that's what my muse wants. Hasa diga eebowai.**

**I should warn you though, if you're thinking of committing to reading this story: I have most, if not all, of this story planned out, and I definitely know how it ends; that being said, this story is going to be DARK. It certainly warrants an M or NC-17 rating – and not for sex, as is usually what fanfic gets the M rating for, but rather for the godawful things that are going to happen. In short, I apologize if anyone squicks, and I totally understand if you don't want to continue reading if it gets too terrible. Who knows if that'll be an issue, but here's to covering all my bases preemptively, I guess.**

**As I said before, the first chapter takes place well into the story's plot, as a sort of introduction to the entire premise. So now, starting with this chapter, we go back to the beginning of this tale to watch events unfold from there.**

* * *

><p>"Who said anything about stopping it?" Batman rasped out through Ra's' chokehold on him.<p>

Ra's paused. Looked up at the head of the train. The control lever was obviously out of commission, jammed at some point during their fight. It could have been either one of them that had caused it. But what was Bruce…

Then he saw the track in front of them give way to an explosion shattering its supports.

Ah. Bruce had always been a clever warrior. Clever, and resourceful.

"You never learned to mind your surroundings," Batman sneered, and as he did so, he flipped out from under Ra's and easily reversed their positions, bat-shaped shuriken aimed directly at his enemy's throat.

At the sight of the falling tracks, a rush had flowed through Ra's in a manner that he had once called fear but was now labeled more appropriately as mild concern. Now, with the weapon poised at his neck by his former student and his own inability to defend himself, something else stirred.

A warrior's admiration, and a mentor's pride.

Bruce was making slower steps in this department than he'd hoped, given his impressive progress in all other fields of training. But finally, he'd grown out of that repression by killing the man who had trained him to do just that.

"Have you finally learned to do what is necessary?" Best to hear his victory come from the student's mouth, for better retention of the lesson learned.

"I won't kill you." The shuriken left Batman's hand, blowing out another of the train's windows.

That which had stirred before fell. After all his hopes for this pupil, after everything he had done to ensure his success, Bruce still would not yield to this most important of principles. Without it, the discipline was lost upon him.

Batman threw a grenade behind him, detaching the compartment from the rest of the train.

"…but I don't have to save you."

And with that, he was gone, gliding backward like a living, demonic shadow into the terror-stricken night of Gotham City.

Ra's got to his knees in a crouch, facing the front of the train. Impact was seconds away. But, considering the halfway path to which Bruce had just committed himself with those last words, the situation had improved slightly. Not much, but slightly. This time, the man had learned from his mistakes, and knew not to save his teacher's life again.

And considering the vengeance that still boiled through Ra's al Ghul's veins for Bruce Wayne's betrayal and subsequent victory, choosing not to save his life was probably the most prudent decision Batman had arrived at tonight.

Yes, perhaps this end was the most fitting in Batman's mind. He shouldn't worry him with his fate…just yet. There should be time for Bruce to revel in his victory, enjoy his so-called inner peace at putting an old wound to rest, before he knew.

Content with his decision, instants away from certain death, Ra's closed his eyes.

xxx

It wasn't until two hours had passed since the collision that the SWAT members approached the train wreck. Their rifles were raised, though it was more out of warning away any potential street bums than any perceived threat of a challenger. The police had been through it all, had labeled it a simple structural failure that had caused the support beams to collapse, and with none injured or killed, they had left.

Leaving it all for the League's picking.

One by one, they tilted over rocks of rubble, searching in the mountains of debris for their leader. Bits and pieces of the train and demolished concrete crumbled around them. Soon it had been ten minutes. Then fifteen. Twenty-five. Each second was another mounting worry for them all. The life support mechanism could last a while, but not quite _this_ long…

"Found him," came the murmured voice to the main group's right. They all hurried over, easily bounding across hulking chunks of steel. They loped up to regroup with him, aiding in pushing the debris covering Ra's al Ghul's body.

Once they cleared the last bit of rebar from his barely-moving chest, the pendant was in plain sight. Around his neck in a simple chain, it was a clear vial. A vial with colorless liquid, liquid that steamed when it made contact with injured skin.

Lazarus was sustaining him.

Two men hefted him up to carry him between them, and the team left, one already making contact with their private chopper to pick them up. And while the rest of Gotham recovered and Bruce Wayne withdrew from his mask yet again, the leader of the League was set on a straight course for Jodhpur, India.

xxx

Back when he had first discovered them, he had utilized the Pits as they were meant to be used, in their purest form. A simple bath when the grips of old age needed to be loosened a bit. Nothing too serious.

But as his offensive weapons grew more sophisticated through the ages, his defensive weapons had been improved upon, as well.

His loyal soldiers set him to rest in his permanent private suite of the Balsamand Lake Palace, and then brought out the tubes. All throughout his arms, legs, and chest were they implemented. As soon as each was inserted in place, they were switched on, free to pump the life-restoring fluid suctioned from the Pit three hundred miles beneath their feet.

He could have gone to bathe there directly, constructing a tunnel and lift to take him down. But this…this was far more discreet. Besides, he had found that this way, his own living matter could not taint the Pit, as was usually the case when he immersed himself within one. That produced a more sharpening effect, but diluted the waters quickly, rendering it ineffectual after a few uses. This way, he only took what was needed, while its source remained untouched and pure, ready whenever necessary.

When such matters as his immortality were concerned, Ra's preferred to conserve his resources.

xxx

Everywhere, there were apprehensive stares.

The "hotel clerk" rifled through papers, glanced up nearly every three seconds. Sometimes more often than that. There had been no new guests since _his_ arrival.

The "bellhop's" eyes were dead ahead. Frozen on nothing. Attentive, yet his mind was obviously far in the distance.

Three League members posed as guests instead of employees, and sat with newspapers, coffee, laptops. Two in the attire of business, one in that of a tourist. Only their eyes betrayed their anxieties, as they flicked nervously to each other, and constantly at the hallway that led to _his_ room.

The single tourist who was simply just that picked up on nothing. As was to be expected; the League of _Shadows_ had earned their name time and time again. As far as she knew, one of the most popular hotels in Jodhpur was not owned by the most deadly international crime organization in history. And the man responsible for the fall of Atlantis, not to mention that of the Sodom and Gomorrah she was reading about right now in her Bible, was not taking far longer than usual to recover in a room down the hall and to the right.

Soon, she got up to leave, departed in the elevator up to her room, and the last shred of calm in the lobby seemed to vacate with her.

Still, their training was not to be shunned in their state of uncertainty, and every faux employee and guest continued with their pretend duties in the ice-sharp silence of the lobby. Waiting for the news.

The news came in the form of a "housekeeping maid." "He's awake."

When one of the three in their seats made to rise, the maid's next response cut him off.

"And he's gone."

xxx

Solitude had always been an interesting experience for Ra's, one he was always open to when the opportunity presented itself. His loyal followers would never betray him (that one caped-and-cowled exception did not count), but sometimes the true state of civilization could only be made clear to him when he immersed himself within it entirely – entirely _alone_.

Especially after this crippling defeat, he felt he deserved a fresh take on the world, and a new city, a new decay, a new goal to set his mind to.

Everywhere he traveled, it was the same. Starvation lurked on the doorstep of indulgence, poverty on the edges of luxury. Everywhere was filled with the same duality of the human condition. It sickened him, and he did end up killing a few criminals whose deeds really set his nerves on edge, but none of it made any difference. Maybe in the world, but not in his mind.

Because still, no matter what variation of the uncomplicated criminal he slew, he always wished the monster had originated in Gotham City. Just so he could take some piece of the monstrosity down with him.

In between his travels, his individual justice missions and his contacts with old associates, letting them know he was on the lam but still expecting their services soon enough, he gave the matter some much-needed pondering.

It was true; Gotham had eluded his crushing fist twice now, something that had never happened in all his successes of the last 11,000 years. (Or was it 13,000 now? He had lost track at this point.) It was a black blemish on his record, but it would wait for another day. Perhaps another lifetime, even.

But it would get its chance soon enough. He could wait. Of course he could. In the meantime, Chicago and New York were both looking quite promising, and Kabul had always held his interest; then again, Syria and Egypt were heating up _very_ quickly as of late, so perhaps fueling a civil war here and there wouldn't be a bad idea…then Israel, just _begging_ for the felling touch of the Demon's Head…

Then again, indirect action had been tried and tested a hundred times in the past. It had worked on the Soviets in '91, and on Nagasaki in the last World War. Government infiltration, silent yet forceful suggestion of seemingly self-imposed collapse, or else inside agents cultivating the widespread destruction of the worst of humanity's diseases…it was all he had ever done.

And still, with both options available, he had failed in Gotham City. Both with economics, and with the fear toxin. Both tactics from the Shadows had failed.

But his unwavering interest in Gotham, he soon came to understand, was cemented due to the pattern of his defeats.

Wayne.

Gotham's depression of the '80s had been effectively halted by the efforts – and ultimately the deaths – of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Then his next attempt – the more grandiose of his various plans – had been completely thwarted by none other than the Batman.

Bruce Wayne.

The man he had taught to hide, to fight, and to kill, but who had stolen his trade secrets and – an even more grievous affront – had used them to directly _oppose_ him.

Perhaps that was what made this wound fester in his blood more than usual.

But yet, in the two months to follow, the time was never right. He kept more in tune with news of Gotham than ever before, and the opportunity was shrinking by the day. Hope was coming to Gotham, and not just in the form of an illegal vigilante obsessed with the theatrical. No, now there was talk of one Harvey Dent's campaign. An official, elected hero. A savior for a damned city that Ra's knew had no hope of ever being saved by _anyone._

The front of false hope angered him, just as much as the news of Sgt. Gordon's promotion to Lieutenant, along with his special unit of "Major Crimes." No doubt both their offices were full of the mob's lackeys. Honestly, Gotham City's continued existence was the only crime he could think of labeling as "major."

Still, the mob grew, only to be hounded relentlessly by the cops who pretended to straighten out, and the district attorney who thought he knew how to offer salvation to Satan. And still, the Batman continued his fruitless mission to weed out the criminals and give hope to the rest of the city.

When the truth was, living in Gotham City automatically proclaimed you a criminal by default.

And criminality must be fought without hesitation. Without pity.

And _without_ exception.

But one day…the news of _him_ came to the worldly ears of Ra's al Ghul.

It started out small. An armed robbery, double homicide. Much in the echoes of Bruce's own personal tragedy. But there was no little boy left crying for Mommy and Daddy; only a simple playing card was left in the murders' wake.

Soon it escalated, without warning, without talk. Simply by action. A corner store robbery, two killed simply, three carved up into smiles. An apartment broken into, the owners set ablaze on their doorstep, with forks tied in place into their mouths to make them smile as they went up crying in flames. A mob's warehouse owner killed, body parts strewn about in the shape of a laughing grin, the building's contents thrown into the harbor with an entire deck of playing cards, floating in the water like a bad omen.

It was scattered, small, seemingly unconnected except for the elusive man who had obviously committed each deed. But Ra's knew. Saw the escalation. The pieces falling into place, like a carefully-constructed house of cards.

This man, this "Joker", was on the cusp of something big. Something everyone else, even Batman, was too preoccupied – with the mob and their infuriating behind-the-scenes deals to evade the law – to give any attention to.

But he was here, and Gotham would be dragged even further into the cesspools of despair and decrepit lawlessness if he were to continue unchecked. Such a criminal did not come around every century, and though he wasn't unique enough yet to give any sign of being exceptionally vile, Ra's got the feeling that the Joker was soon to bring the worst to Gotham City.

And he had spawned, seemingly dropped down onto the face of the Earth, all because of the birth…of Batman.

Once again, it was Batman's fault. He had caused this man to exist, and his downfall was in the quiet making because of it – without him even realizing it.

All the signs pointed, as ever, to Batman.

Batman, and this Joker…all symbols of what Ra's had failed to do. Batman had stopped him, and now the fruit of his failure, the suffering of humanity that he had failed to avert, the Joker, was about to take center stage.

And yet, the League of Shadows still remained as its name implied, and his inner circle of trusted advisors were stuck in their rut; all they could come up with was to bounce ideas off each other as to _how they were to topple al-Qaeda…_

No.

Ra's stilled his limbs, his eyes, his breath. His thoughts zapped into place. It was a rebirth far more potent than anything the Lazarus Pits had ever conjured for him before.

He had always kept his League's existence where it belonged, in the shadows…but with this double-failure, and the man who bore the blame already knowing of its presence…

…well, why not?

He stood up quite fluidly for a 12,000-year-old man, and arranged for his personal aircraft to bring him from this high rise in Tel Aviv.

The news throughout the League traveled fast. Ra's al Ghul was returning to headquarters in Bhutan.

For a meeting of the utmost importance.

xxx

Within the bowels of the newly-constructed palace in the frigid reaches of the Himalayas, each division leader sat in silence. No unnecessary chitchat was made, as would precede a meeting of a usual, more benign organization. Then again, in a more benign organization, the members did not know each other's deepest fears, their worst demons that had plagued them into joining said organization to conquer them. Therefore, whenever any eye contact was made, it was met with a spark of deep knowledge and mutual respect. Each of these men had watched each other grow in spirit, had either trained stalwartly side-by-side or as mentors to each other. They were a brotherhood unlike any other, and their disciplined silence clearly conveyed it.

The silence permeated even further into the room's heart, however, when Ra's al Ghul made his entrance.

Though they had all received occasional correspondence from him to remain on standby for further instruction, and had garnered plenty of rumors as to his whereabouts and goings-on, none of them had actually seen him in the flesh since the Balsamand Lake Palace. He was quite an impressive sight, to be sure. Lazarus had outdone itself this time in his restoration.

Ra's was treading calmly to the head of the table, not sitting down. As he walked, everyone made the sign of respect to him, patting a sideways fist to their hearts and motioning it toward him.

He did not return the gesture, but rather spoke.

"I have already given the order for all our forces to withdraw from their stations. They are all to relocate here, for further preparation as a collective unit. We will need all our resources available for our next objective."

One of them, a lean and agilely-muscled Pakistani, shifted slightly toward their leader. "With all respect, I was under the impression that our units in Baghdad and Istanbul were close to tracking down the ringleaders of Oja-Dari, and were best situated to remain-"

"As fatal to mankind the terrorist group known as Oja-Dari may be," Ra's cut across him, "that is not our next target."

He paused at the head of the table, turning his back to them. The group at the table fell even more silent, if that was possible, and waited.

"Gentlemen," he finally spoke, "our next target…is Gotham City."

A hushed discomfort, a general rustling, sounded behind him. Just what he had anticipated. They had every reason to doubt his intentions, but they would trust him when they heard his reasoning. They always did.

"Sir…" the large Sudanese man finally took the lead, "our efforts in Gotham have always failed. Twice now it has eluded us."

"Well, as they say, third time is the charm, isn't it?" Ra's turned, looking his League officers in the eye.

They all bowed their heads to him. Ra's had never led them astray so far, besides the two occasions mentioned.

Ra's turned to look at them fully. "I of course realize the gravity of such an executive decision, make no mistake. Gotham has proved a challenge in the past twenty years; we are all aware of it." They all nodded their heads once, sharply.

"But has it escaped your notice what stirs in Gotham these days, in our absence?"

They looked at him, drawing blanks in their eyes. Obviously, they hadn't listened for Gotham's hatching eggs as closely as he had. As the world clearly _needed_ to.

He paused a beat, folded his hands behind his back, then continued on. "You are also all aware, I'm sure, of that greatest tragedy that befell us some months ago. How a trusted new initiate, one who showed the greatest promise to become a legend all his own among our ranks, betrayed us, and stole our sacred knowledge for his own personal use."

They all stole sideways glances at each other as they nodded again. It wasn't something any member of the League of Shadows was comfortable contemplating. In any situation, failure never was.

"Still he lives on at this very moment," Ra's lightly intoned. "Still Bruce Wayne actively utilizes those skills and methods known only by our chosen few, in a manner that slanders our cause. His inability to commit fully to justice, coupled with his audacity to labor on under this symbol he has cultivated, is perhaps the greatest disgrace to befall the League of Shadows in all its illustrious history."

The mood became somber at his words, and a few of the officers sighed soberly.

"Though do not make the mistake of belittling him in your minds. This is still a man with the art of the League of Shadows in his arsenal, who puts it to an extraordinary – albeit misguided – use in his own right. Just because he has strayed from us does not garner him any disrespect. Bruce Wayne is still our most worthy challenger to this day.

"And _that_, my friends, is what brings us here."

Their focus was riveted ever further upon him. They subconsciously shifted forward in their seats.

"His presence is with the purpose in mind of drawing away the poison which threads interminably through Gotham's veins, but that purpose has ultimately backfired. Crime still runs rampant through the city. Any surface of legitimate justice is corrupted with graft and extortion lurking beneath. Unchecked, Gotham has become an untamable beast, with Batman as the unwitting breeder of such madness.

"The greatest specimen of which I have here to show you."

With that, he withdrew a stack of photographs from his black suit jacket pocket, and laid them down for his officers to pass around for scrutiny.

"Murder, robbery, mutilation, theft…" a burly Saudi murmured, "It's gruesome, all right, but nothing we haven't encountered before."

Ra's afforded him the hint of a smug grin. "That is because you are missing the connections."

He pointed to the first picture, of the alleyway crime scene, the double homicide with a joker card laying atop the bodies. "The first was obviously to gain attention, to make his name and his own symbol known in the circles of those who mattered. Namely the cops, the mob, and of course, the Batman. The actual motive for a robbery is uncertain, but one does not need to stretch the imagination to determine why ordinary criminals steal and murder. It is what we all have pledged to stop in the world." They all nodded.

He gestured to the next picture, featuring a newsclipping of the convenience store, side by side with a few more ghastly and harder-to-obtain pictures of victims, Glasgow grins etched into their cheeks. "The second was to obtain personal necessities, various items with no real purpose, including a large stash of greasepaint – his regular attire in his next few crimes, as the further pictures point out. That, and the establishment of an MO – yet another sign he wants people to know of. To _fear_."

They all shot a glance up at him at the word.

"Yes, you heard me correctly. This man knows how to manipulate fear just as we do. These actions are made to seem random, but they are anything but. They all point to a deeper reasoning.

"Such as the third crime. An apartment. The family was set on fire while being forced to smile for a camera, from which that very picture was obtained. Clearly he is telling the police that his victims will suffer. What it tells _us_ is that he has a proclivity for pyromania, and…he is in need of a headquarters. Which is what 1502 Randolph Apartments has by now no doubt become.

"Then we have the fourth. He has begun targeting the mob by now, but that could be a coincidence. I believe his goals may not be quite as provincial as a simple takeover of Maroni, Viti, and Gambol's coalition. If it were so, he could have easily taken the same actions of the past three crimes out upon mob members, their families, or their associates. It may be to throw them off his trail, but the former option seems the most likely, given the destructive and overwhelmingly violent deaths the previous ten victims have been dealt. His intent is to cause unimaginable pain to the general populace, no matter what background they hail from. He is refusing to discriminate between his victims in Gotham City, much as we have.

"So no, the slap on the nose the mob may have received could have been a minor intent, but the underlying reason for this increasingly gruesome murder is relatively simple: _he next needs a storage facility_. Maybe as another headquarters, and Randolph Apartments has been designated another use, but it is quite clear that this move was made for the primary necessity of storing something for a time. Whatever he needs this vast space for, it cannot be certain, but with this escalation, there is no telling what it may be.

"Or…" he raised his eyes to meet them all with a quiet stare, "…what he intends to do next."

The Pakistani piped up then. "Sir, are you saying that this…" he looked at the double-homicide picture for the correct playing card, "…this '_Joker'_, is as much a threat to us as the Batman? He may be quite a heinous criminal, but with all respect, this is quite average of an underworld takeover not unlike Falcone's when-"

"Yes," Ra's quietly stilled his argument. "That is _exactly_ what I am saying."

He could tell they all were still quite skeptical. "The Joker is not an average criminal by any means. If he were, the signs of his 'average underworld takeover' would be quite obvious. He would _want_ everyone in Gotham to know his_ exact_ intentions. But no. Instead he has lain low. Shrouded himself in obscurity. Slowly worked his way up into more appalling crimes, yes, but all with _seemingly_ no connection to all but the well-trained eye. And that, gentlemen, is his purpose in his entirety. Quite simply, it is to be _unpredictable_.

"At the moment, he _wants_ to go unnoticed."

He leaned closer to them, his hands on the table.

"Because, as we all know, how better to concoct and launch the most infallible, the most unexpected of assaults…when you have the guise of being _unnoticed?_"

At last, they all seemed to understand his point. At least, part of it.

"So it's agreed – he is dangerous," the Saudi concluded. "But is he a danger to _us_, personally? I would think him a greater threat to the people of Gotham, and would further tear its people apart, much as we have aimed to do. Why not allow him to run his course, and do our work for us?" The others nodded in agreement.

"Oh, he is more than just dangerous," Ra's spoke softly. "Perhaps you do not realize just what the Joker represents to us, to our ideals, to our purposes."

He sighed. "The Joker must not be regarded as an outside force acting upon Gotham City. He may or may not consider himself to be one of them, but what _we_ must all remind ourselves of is this:

"The Joker is a vicious criminal, with the great potential of hurting the city even further, but above all: _the Joker IS a Gothamite._"

They were shocked at his sudden upsurge of passion in his discourse, but listened on warily.

"We must not allow ourselves for one –_moment_– to separate in our minds the Joker from the city he takes up residence in, even as he wreaks his brand of revenge upon it. The Joker, therefore, is the symbol of everything we have committed ourselves to fighting against in the human condition. He is humanity's worst disease it has yet vomited out of its infected womb, and we, the League of Shadows, will not allow his virus to do our noble work for us any more than we would the Batman himself!"

The Saudi advisor curtly nodded, lowering his head. "Of course, forgive me. I was wrong to suggest such a violation of our principles."

Ra's eased himself back from the table, the picture of perfect control again. He stood in silence, considering. It had been a long time that this idea had fermented in his brain, and now it was time to present it verbally. It was a bold move, but just maybe, Gotham was the bastard daughter of the world that finally merited its execution.

"The Joker…and the Batman…have both become our greatest threats. The Batman for utilizing our secrets for ill-suited purposes, and now the Joker for his utterly destructive nature, the lowest and most decrepit state to which a human being has yet sunk. Both these abominations are nothing but the ugly reflection of their home city, of Gotham herself. If she has managed to produce two so twisted sons from her streets…I'm sure you will agree with me that the time has come to take…_direct action_."

They all stared at him with rapt attention. Eager for what was to follow, awaiting the great duty they were to be charged with next. Anticipating the next great mission to save the human race from itself, and thanklessly allow their unified name to be whispered unheard through history.

Ra's smiled fully. "Quite simply, my friends…we have work to do."


End file.
